


Chainsmoking Your Love | Zeke Jaeger x Reader

by TessaJaeger



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Lemon, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Sex, Smoking, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 15:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30057564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessaJaeger/pseuds/TessaJaeger
Summary: Request! ☆ Zeke Jaeger has vices. Under the night sky, which can he pressure you to succumb to? *I DO NOT OWN ZEKE JAEGER OR ATTACK ON TITAN* Minors DNI.
Relationships: Zeke Yeager/Original Character(s), Zeke Yeager/Original Female Character(s), Zeke Yeager/Reader, Zeke Yeager/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 96





	Chainsmoking Your Love | Zeke Jaeger x Reader

**Author's Note:**

> Request for Zeke Jaeger in Marley! I love Zeke and I was so happy to get this request. I wanted to leave this as up to Reader interpretation as possible for why they would be familiar enough with Zeke to respect him as a superior and be allowed up in that smoking corner behind the laundry sheets. (Eldian low in the Marley military; or working in the building as a civilian... etc...) I think it’s evident at some point during the time skip. And as usual, I do not write condoms into my work. Enjoy! 
> 
> Recommended accompanying playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6wuxRoDkVfZewFX1VSjo7j
> 
> * I would also like to thank the anon. who requested this work and included a note with suggested songs; I have borrowed (with permission) the inspirational titular song, and in fact it is what inspired me to create mood playlists for my writing! This linked playlist is my own creation :)

Night in Marley is accompanied by whipping winds off the sea, the salt still tangible in the air even high above the Liberio city limits. It stings when you lick your lips, but you do it again and again until your skin is chapped, mouth and eyes watering against the breeze, somehow soothing on sleepless nights such as this. The wind has been picking up all day, the aroma of ozone coming thick. A storm is soon approaching this city.

A grating comes sharp behind you, wood scraping and striking, and your heart leaps in panic at the sudden sound. No one has ever interrupted you on the roof, drinking in the cold clear air behind the sweeping curtains of laundry. And you turn slowly, ready to explain yourself to any Marleyan authority, but the tall, lean, sandy haired man with a wiry beard and glasses that glint in the moonlight is not who you expected to push through the sheets.

The bravest, the boldest, the one who vanquished the island devils as best as he could. The one who stands above the sinners, encouraging good conduct, camaraderie, redemption against the injustices of history. You’ve met him a handful of times before, but never alone. And he speaks, remembering your name in greeting when you spring to automatic attention. 

“It’s late,” Zeke Jaeger says, as he takes a long drag from his lit cigarette.

“Sir – I’m sorry, did you expect privacy up here?” You relax, slightly, when he shrugs.

“Nothing to apologize for, don't look so tense. It’s just a good place for a smoke.”

“Oh.” Oh. It explains the broken rolls that litter the stone ground and gutters, black circles of ash stamped into the ledge, things you’d seen nights before but hadn’t given much thought to until now. You turn back to the ocean as he steps besides you, resting his elbow so close to yours against the half-wall of the roof that you can almost feel the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you smoke?” he asks, lifting the packet to you.

You consider for a moment, how you should answer. “No, thank you, sir,” you say.

“Suit yourself,” Zeke says. It was a satisfactory enough choice, and he lowers his arm. The profile of his face is shadowed, nose pointed out to the sea, crow’s feet deep against his eyes cutting black lines in the moonlight. “Storm clouds on the horizon.”

It’s merely a literal observation, but there’s a tinge of amusement in his voice, as if there’s something funny about the incoming tempest.

“How was the weather there? On – that island?”

The words sound lame, and you hear it as they come out of your mouth, but you can’t think of any way to continue this rare chance of conversation. Zeke pauses, reaching for the cigarette and spinning it between his fingers. 

“If I say that the people were the true storms, does that sound impressive?”

You laugh, before wondering if it seems rude, mocking the trauma of war. “Sorry. Sir. I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

Zeke waves his hand in silence, keeping his face towards the horizon, but not bothered. 

Your pride can't let the potential offense slide. “Thank you,” you say, feeling it inadequate words for the war chief of Marley, but better than leaving it at a laugh. “For protecting us.”

He smiles, turns his head down ever so slightly. Moonlight reflects against the thin lens of his glasses as he regards you with a side-eye glance. His mouth opens a little wider than necessary to blow out the next puff of smoke, angled just barely out of way of your nose. It still stings your eyes, and you’re blinking furiously up at the stars even as he stubs out the cigarette and lights another, casting the match to the rocks below.

“The prices we pay to secure that future.”

Zeke speaks with soft deliberation, with the same weight as his official declarations and updates. But the quiet words are chilling right in your ear. This man, smoking so innocuously besides you as if it’s an everyday occurrence and the two of you are as thick as thieves instead of near strangers – it’s _fascinating_ , uncannily so. His dry wit, his charisma, feels so suddenly familiar and inviting. 

You could step down and leave him to his cigarette, but something in you yearns for this company, unwilling to cut it short even as the conversation slowly lulls with his strange words. In the distance, waves crash. Some sleepy gulls stir and coo once or twice in the darkness, and you shiver, turning your head directly to him.

“It’s cold,” you say.

“I have a bottle of wine in my quarters for that,” Zeke says, carelessly. “But if you want to enjoy the ocean and stars longer…” he extends his arm out again, flipping the packet open before you can let your mind dwell on that passing sentence, “have a cigarette.”

You still aren’t sure what the right choice is, but you watch your hand open, his fingers brushing against yours as he slides a cigarette into your grasp. You roll it between your thumb and forefinger as you lift it to your mouth, before realizing you have no matches. You turn to Zeke. “May I have a light?” 

He says nothing and doesn’t move, casting his lashes down and inhaling deep, the red flame sparking. 

Hesitantly, you press your cigarette to the end of his. Inhaling, you find it strong – remarkably so, and your throat convulses in efforts to mask the coughing as you lean back over the wall. Crumbs of tobacco coat against the edge of your tongue on the next puff. You can’t hide it when you gather it behind your lips and spit, messy, over the ledge.

You look at Zeke, and his lips twitch in a smile as he indolently lowers his cigarette. “Sorry. I rolled them myself. Go on, suck it, if you can take another drag.”

“I can, sir. Just a little strong,” you say, trying not to appear overwhelmed. You suck on the cigarette a little more lightly, and it’s less sickening just to hold the air and puff it out. Soon, your inhale is more eager than reluctant. “Remarkable, that this habit doesn’t slow you down, sir. You’re the best we have.”

Zeke leans down into the ledge, taking a step back to lower his chin to his rested elbows. He’s shorter than you at this casual angle now as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, and looks up, glasses glinting in the moonlight, as he grins. The flash makes your head spin as the smoke begins to creep through your senses. “Are you marveling at my physique despite this _filthy_ habit?” He speaks through the roll gritted between his teeth. 

Your laugh is uncomfortable now as you lower the cigarette, unsure if you should literally bend to the war chief’s level. “Sir, I didn’t say it’s filthy.”

“But it is a bad habit,” he says, almost musing. 

The cigarette burns between your fingers, and you lift it shakily back to your lips, unsure of what to say.

Zeke straightens, draws himself up to his full imposing height. He drops his cigarette, crushing it into the stone with a step closer to you. You don’t realise he’s come that much closer until his hand comes down on the other side of you, and your head is tilting back in order to make eye contact. The coils of his beard are highlighted in the moon, more ginger than blond in the darkness, tobacco wafting down at his breath. With his other hand he gently takes the half-burned cigarette from between your lips, flicking it over the edge without bothering to put it out. 

“I should break it.”

Your mouth wavers to speak, though no words come to mind, and that’s when he kisses you. 

His lips smear yours with tobacco, tongue disgusting with that earthy cloying taste, and he had been right even when he put the words in your mouth – a _filthy habit,_ fucking filthy. You hate how it fills your senses, the nicotine in your own head already clouding enough, but you kiss him back, smoky saliva entwining with tongues. He pushes his deep into your mouth, the hand that had taken your cigarette returning to cradle against your jaw, thumb stroking down to your throat and traveling down again. You gasp into his mouth, almost breaking the kiss, as he slips it between your legs. It’s a reflex when you clutch his hand between your thighs, but you can’t force the muscles to relax, as pulse after pulse of heat begins to come up within you. Your head is dizzy, starved for oxygen, throbbing in time with his stroking, searching hand.

Those pulses are what bring you back to the cold rooftop, your eyes fluttering open - _when had they closed?_ \- with heat beating through you. The curve of his glasses press against your temple, the purple of his undereye bags meeting your eyes, and you break your lips from Zeke’s.

The war chief. The savior of Marley, with his hand between your thighs.

Your heart hammers. He must hear it.

“Are you – scared?” Zeke asks, tilting his head slightly as his hand creeps slowly, so slowly, higher. His tone isn’t mocking, isn’t leering, but curious, and you can hear the smile in his voice. His fingertips curl against your inner thigh. 

You can’t keep your eyes on his, shaking with burning arousal and shame knit together, and look away, look down. 

“No,” you force out, and it isn’t a lie when you say it. “But, sir – ”

“You know no one will come up here. If they do, I’ll bear the blame.”

His words carry a casual determination, the great warrior with his hand hunting up over the fabric of your clothes, and it’s the assurance that makes you shake with an emotion you can’t quite name. No, it’s not fear. It isn’t really shame, either. Your eyes, unable to meet his still, rest on the bulge of his crotch.

Zeke knows he’s reached your cunt when you shake harder between the cage of his arm and the brace of the ledge, and you lift your face to his with a short gasp. He brushes his hand over, and back, and he catches your lips in a kiss once more. He smiles again, hard against your mouth, beard scratching against the edge of your cheeks and down to your chin. The pace of his kisses increases slightly, just as his hand massages over your clothes, moving roughly up to find a fastening. 

An indecent sound escapes you, raw in your throat and aching not from the burning remnants of cigarette smoke, but it makes Zeke break the kiss now to let out his own soft groan of satisfaction. His thighs press against yours, and he rocks his hips, pushing his hand harder against you. 

“Get down,” he says, and there’s a command in the words, a military order that has you sinking to your knees. It leaves you buzzing, to be so suddenly without his touch, and you pause with your hands on your thighs, trying to anchor yourself through the smoke in your head. The shadows reel, either from the cigarette, or the murky depth of darkness. Above you, Zeke lowers his trousers.

His nicotine stained fingers stroke his cock, already half-hard as you kneel between his parted legs. When you lift fingers to it, shaking despite yourself, he closes his hand around yours. You finally meet his eyes again, and as he rubs your hand over him, there’s no trace of that warm smile any more. 

“Suck it,” Zeke says, his voice low and grating, a whipping command in the cold air.

You move your hand almost experimentally, to see if he’ll let you, and he lets go as you open your mouth to take him in. He moves the hand to the back of your head in a large, open grip, as if he’s testing, waiting to see how you proceed next. You keep your hand along his shaft, rolling down, massaging along the length that your mouth can’t reach yet, even as your fingers drag more and more saliva down. His cock becomes firm, hard muscle under your fingers and in your mouth. 

Your thumb strokes up along the underside of his cock as your hand stills at the base, and he groans above you, deep and guttural, something – something that you want to hear again. You move your tongue along him, around and up to find the sensitive tip of the head and flick right underneath there. Zeke’s hand tightens, not threatening, but encouraging, and as you flicker your tongue back and forth there again and again, you begin to taste heavy, bitter droplets beading in your mouth.

Inhaling through your nose is too shallow, and you try to relax your lips and hiss some breath through your smoke-smothered lungs, and that’s when Zeke’s fingers clamp against you in an unmistakable control. It forces you forward, his cock further down your throat. You do your best to match the movement of your lips and mouth to the growing rhythm of his guiding hand and hips. He grunts, a confirmation of your efforts, and thrusts faster.

But he does not fuck your mouth roughly, still letting your keep your agency. You do the work on your own as more of his bitter fluids begin to mix with your own drool, leaking down the side of his shaft and dribbling down your chin despite your efforts to keep your lips a seal around his cock. You almost choke at the effort, his cock growing firmer and bigger in your mouth, hitting right at the back of your throat. Your eyes flutter and roll in reflex.

“No – look at me.”

You force your eyes up to Zeke just as his hand pushes down to the back of your head, through your eyelashes and beyond his shirt whipping in the breeze. It makes your eyes sting and water, his cock heavy on your tongue. His hips thrust into your mouth stronger, and you gag at the movement. 

Zeke looks at you, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, stray hair sliding down across his forehead, and his lips are parted, his breath as ragged as your own. The tightening of his cock in your mouth should have been your hint but his strained words show you how close he is.

“That’s – yes – ”

You’ve never seen him at such a loss for words, in all the public appearances, in any aside of conversation. You struggle to keep your eyes on his, not out of abashment now but physical strain. Your body is in acute discomfort even as you urge him to pleasure, the stone hard against your knees, your frozen hand heavy and elbow near buckling as you keep yourself upright, the hand against his base flexed back to cup his balls in short, clumsy motions. And beneath your clothes, where he had touched you, something hot and throbbing even without his hand screams for attention.

In fact, you’re close to sliding down against the stone to feed that desire with shameless grinding for friction, but Zeke’s next guttural moan is close to a cry that could rise and ricochet alarmingly through these towers, and your tongue rises against him to attention.

You hollow your cheeks and suck as much as you can in the short bursts of air you can manage into your lungs, finding the strength in your hand, tacky with saliva and drips of precum, to massage firmer against his balls. Zeke trembles, every bit of his body against you and in you shaking, his cock hot and throbbing in the vacuum of your mouth. With a hoarse sound, he holds your head down against him, and comes hard.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps out, and the bitter spatter floods in your mouth and down your throat. You almost choke against the taste, worse than the tobacco, but keep your lips around him until he softens, swallowing every drop. When he’s empty, he lets go of your head with a satisfied sigh, and you let him fall from your lips, your hand away from him.

Silence.

You massage the front of your knees in this swelling pause, turning your head to the billowing curtains of laundry. The thick fog through your mind begins to dissipate and allow shame to return as you contemplate your exit, begin to fabricate extravagant fantastical scenarios of seeing him again in these halls, in the city, and how you would excuse yourself, you the simple whore on your knees who just sucked him off on the roof – 

And Zeke kneels, catching your chin between his fingers to interrupt the panicking “what-ifs” and coax your gaze back to him. More accurately, you look down to the dip of his collarbone and the thin wiry hair poking from between the folds of his shirt as he kisses your forehead and wraps you in a one-armed embrace.

“I should – ”

“No, no, I’m not as selfish as that,” Zeke says. The murmur is convincing, his tone so soft that it makes you close your eyes and shudder into him as his other hand leaves your face to stroke almost comforting along your back. He eases you down against the stone that way, kicking his pants fully off along with his boots. Strong fingers nimbly work at the fastening of your clothes faster than you could undress yourself, and with an attentiveness to every piece of fabric, down to the unlacing of your boots. He peels your undergarments away, already wet and clinging to your skin. 

It makes you flush as the cool air hits those embarrassingly hot areas, damp right where your thighs meet, and you start to instinctually prop up on your elbows, to cover your vulnerable, exposed self.

“Are you running away after all?” Zeke asks, leaning up over you, the moon reflected in his glasses, the edge of amusement in his voice somehow sounding dangerous. 

Your response of “ _No_ ” comes a little too fast, too breathless, but it’s good enough to merit a quick, closed-mouth kiss against your lips as Zeke shifts his position between your legs. He pulls back, and you catch the smirk winding across his lips as he slides down your body before he’s lost in the shadows. He releases his touch on you for a moment to unbutton his shirt, leaving him as naked as you when his fingers dance across your skin again. His hands are strong on your calves, pushing your legs higher, and the kisses down your skin from your bent knees prickle with the coarse hairs of his beard moving southward with his lips, alternating from thigh to thigh. 

You hiss, a broken, “ _oh_ ” as your legs slink to the stone, sprawling on either side of him as he lowers himself to the ground in a show of equality and runs his tongue up along your clit. Your body jerks up. 

The building, budding desire is overwhelming now, your cunt slickening and swelling from just that first bare touch. He doesn’t linger long or move slowly, letting his mouth open right there, licking over you as his fingers reach up against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs to grind against your entrance, prodding, searching again.

Zeke’s fingers move faster than his tongue, as he breaks away with a groan. He finds your entrance, but does not slip past it yet, roughly rubbing against your folds as if to find all the slickness, the sweat, the arousal, already gathering through you. He slows then, tracing the shape of your cunt entirely before moving back down and up into you at an angle that your own masturbatory explorations cannot reach, something that makes you cry out sharply.

He thrusts what feels like two fingers in so hard, so immediately, that your hips lift as high as they can and slam back to the stone. You swallow and gasp, the last sour tinges of his cum at the back of your mouth even as your mouth waters again at his ministrations. 

“ _Oh, fuck, fuck-_ ”

You almost call his name, intimate, without a title or honorific, as he drags his fingers out of you, slick against your folds before the heat of his face comes again to your thighs. Zeke kisses right where your leg meets the curve of your hip and down to your cunt, the scratching of his beard teasing. When he thrusts his tongue inside, it’s not enough, not reaching as deep as you need, but you’re throbbing badly at his touch, the sensation so soft in contrast to the violent actions of his fingers. 

This is more than the first licking prelude, his mouth open over all of you, tongue hungry and running in circles around your entrance before scooping back in to taste every dripping place of you. His top lip, the bristling of his facial hair, moves achingly against your clit, rubbing you swollen and raw. It’s endless, the circular motions open and sloppy and ever repeating. Your knees shake up again, almost closing against his skull, and his hands, free, fingers still damp with you, hold you there with a clamping grip at your thighs.

You could hold yourself back – just barely, but it _had_ been possible – from screaming his name so disrespectfully at that urge, but you cannot stop your grasping hands from reaching down to knit anxiously between the strands of blond hair you know you’ll find. 

The chants of “fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ” that rock out of you mix with the whistling of the wind, coming without your own conscious desire to speak, just at the need to express your elation as Zeke brings you closer and closer to orgasm. When it strikes and the coil behind your belly springs open, hotter than you can bear, you buck your hips unevenly, unable to hold it back without any more warning to him. You come hard on his tongue with a choked cry. It roars through you, sparking through your veins. You let go of his hair only to crash down across your forehead in exhausted spasms of euphoria, the heat rippling down from your core to Zeke’s mouth waiting to lap it all up from your cunt. 

Not all. He ruins it by pulling away even as your body pulses, stomach and thigh muscles contracting erratically around nothing. Above you, stars swim above your half-sightless eyes. The sound you make is garbled and incoherent. 

When you offer nothing else, Zeke lets out a short sigh, almost of disappointment at your sudden lifelessness. 

“I didn't think that was all you had in you,” Zeke says, and his hands coax your legs flat against the ground, spread achingly wide on either side of the expanse of his body. You force your eyes down to him, spinning with final dregs of nicotine and the echoes of your orgasm, to watch his dark sandy head bend over you once more. 

“It’s… not,” you force out, and he lifts his face, another twisted smirk flashing across his lips. It’s a wicked smile, it’s…

Devilish, is the word that comes to mind, and the shiver that comes straight down your back is cold, uncomfortable. 

Maybe his insistence of selflessness was a lie. Maybe he’s been waiting for something more since you sucked him dry the first time.

He spreads you with his thumbs, and spits. You shudder against the sharpness of it against your sensitive, raw folds, arching your back, the splaying of his hands into your thighs keeping your hips firm against the stone. The cool slick of his saliva mixes with the dregs of your arousal as he pushes it in with a thumb, moving into you before you can even gasp out, partly in elation, partly in pain. He fucks it into you with his fingers, stretching you deep.

“ _Fuck…_ ”

Your thighs tremble, knocking into the ground. His thick fingers are teasingly painful, stirring you again without bringing any hint of satisfaction. You can feel it pooling from you, the remnants of your orgasm with his saliva and a rush coming anew. 

He adjusts, kneeling with his twisting thumb almost dipping out of you, and the smooth head of his cock comes nudging against your inner thigh, hard again. He’s trembling too, breath heavy in the air over you, his own want so close to overtaking his actions. His thumb slips out as his cock begins to push in, keeping you open. 

And then he doesn’t move.

Zeke’s hands are strong, keeping your thighs open as he rests over you, the moonlight casting long shadows over his face, and you whimper. He moves his hips, not enough to thrust inside, just edging the tip of his cock no further than his fingers have reached. Your breath catches in your throat, and it seems an excruciatingly long time before he moves out, and back. He hasn’t come any deeper, and your muscles twitch, begging for him to give in to that animalistic desire and - _just fuck you now_.

“Please,” you whisper, the word rough and catching in your throat. 

Zeke’s eyes, glassy in the dark, shine, and he does it again, that teasing thrust that just prickles and pulses through you. He holds you down, watching you clench, breathing shallowly and struggling as your body quivers. If he just wanted to turn that arousal back on, your sore cunt is more than ready despite the thudding pain of overstimulation. He thrusts halfway once more and back out, leaving you aching, hot, and empty.

“Please,” you say again.

And Zeke almost growls, the throaty sound so gruff and raw you shake at the sound of it. Your hips move desperately back and forth, trying to push him deeper. “You’re teasing… stop…” is all you can force out, pathetic, frantic, grinding upward again.

“Your body is so impatient,” he says, hoarsely, and the sound you make in response is just that. “What happened to all your anxiety? Where did all that go?”

You whimper once more, unable to offer any argument, your dignity long gone in tatters. 

He smiles, lefts one weighted hand from your hips, and pulls his glasses from his face. You can’t see where he puts them to rest, keeping your eyes now locked so firmly on his face, the shadows cutting sharp across his cheekbones and rippling when he moves his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose and exhale sharply. A waft of tobacco, stale on the air, drifts to you. 

“I have been cruel,” Zeke says softly, strained and his eyes, smaller without the magnifying power of the glasses, are unreadable as they fix on you. “I suppose it’s not fair to either of us, is it?”

You let out a strangled, desperate sound, and that’s when he finally thrusts into you, sinking his body down and splaying his legs hot against yours. The hand on your hip still keeps you down, but you cry – unable to stop yourself now, a shrill, euphoric, “ _Zeke!_ ” as he moans your name in familiar, dishonorable tandem.

There’s no possible way he could feel better than you do, burying himself in your core, as fucked out from his tongue and fingers as you already are. This is a new satisfaction, deeper than before, and you grind against the stone as best as you can, flexing your fingers as your arms fly up around his neck to dig down into his back. The moans, the cries, that come from you, are drawn from deep within your core, pushed out with every stroke of his cock.

All his teasing, all the drawn out agony of aching, has left you wet again, so wet that his thrusts slap loud against your skin. Zeke fucks you hard and fast, rolling his hips in perfect circles as your fingernails drag down his back, not deep enough to draw blood against your touch, but desperate, raking down again and again as your fingers slide in time with his thrusts. Your entire body ripples around him, eyes rolling up into the stars. Your sounds are almost wild. His are feral. 

He’s barely holding himself over you on one arm, legs tangling into yours, and the thrusts come erratic as he fucks you hard, fast, deep, into the stone roof, against the mix of crumbled and smashed cigarette remnants. His hand slides from your hip at last, letting you move in your own clumsy circles to match him. A fresh cold sweat breaks out over your skin, and you forget to breathe for a moment right when he pulls out and thrusts so deep it aches straight down your thighs. You whine when you can gather the air again, gasping his name, so delicious on your tongue that you feel intoxicated saying it over and over – 

“ _Zeke,_ Zeke, fuck – ”

Zeke’s forehead presses into yours, your neck straining up, the filthy stone ground hard beneath your skull and shoulders, and he breathes just as heavily as you, ragged into your mouth, slipping your name and curses in his own chanting mix between breaths and kisses. His hips thrust against yours, faster, deeper, and you tilt your chin up to catch his lips in a kiss as your arms knot across the back of his shoulders. 

He slows for a moment, and you feel yourself throbbing deep within your core, the rising heat of a second orgasm close. You clench over his cock, spasming on your back, and when he pulls out and sinks so deep, slowly inside you, it almost makes you topple over the edge.

“I’m – Zeke, I’m – again -”

He nods, brusque, short, half-listening and really just sliding his face against yours, but after a moment, he understands and nods again, moving deep inside you with long strokes that leave you breathless. He leans up and breaks the close contact of your faces, raising his forearm to rest on his elbow. It makes him higher over you and as his thrusts slow in an exerted control that comes through hissing, gritted-teeth breaths sour across your face, you can almost rut against his body pressed up against yours. 

It’s not quite enough to grind yourself to satisfaction, but your legs go limp as the sensation brings you ever closer. “Yes -”

Zeke groans, a sound that snaps vocal and rough as it comes from his chest, as if he’s at the limit of his control, but it’s the sound and the friction of your legs against his that does it. Your head collapses into your neck and you convulse as the second orgasm roars through you – shorter waves than the first, the ripples somewhat weaker, but your body shakes uncontrollably underneath his. And Zeke picks his rhythm up, fucking you through it, curving one hand between your head and the stone ground, pushing your face back to his.

“Me – too – ” he says at last, the words broken and jagged, and he kisses you, harsh, open-mouthed and sloppy with drool. 

You moan, feeling it all subside into a dull throbbing, his cock still splitting you apart with the growing ferocity of the thrusts. He sucks on your lower lip, letting go, and with a muffled groan he leans his head back, the contours of his neck muscles tightening in the moonlight. Just as your inner walls begin to ache sharper, so exhausted, so over-worked, Zeke pulls out and leans back, kneeling and panting. His hair is fully loose, sweat pasting some strands against his cheeks and neck, and his eyes burn as he takes hold of his cock, letting out a few furious pumps before coming again, this time down across your chest and stomach, with a raw, rough, “ _Fuck_ …”

His name dies on your tongue as you let out one last broken whimper, and you wince despite yourself as the fluids across you cool uncomfortably. A gust of wind, sending the laundry billowing doesn’t help, and you stare up at the dizzying stars for a moment as everything throbs to a sobering clarity.

Tobacco and salt and sweat hang heavy in the air. Zeke rocks back on his heels, exhaling loudly. You force yourself up on your elbows, feeling the scrapes and aches now that you separate your body from the stone ground.

“Here.”

Zeke’s reaching up, tugging a sheet free of the poles, and offers it to you. You take it cautiously.

“Can – is it okay to use -”

“It’s laundry, isn’t it? What’s the difference?”

You can’t look at him as you clean your skin of his sweat and cum, but you have to turn your head back and sit up properly to reach for your clothes, wherever he’s dropped them. In this undignified moment, at least he isn’t turned to you, as he swipes his glasses clean against another of the laundry sheets.

You gather your thoughts as you feel your body throb and leak, a heavy reverie shivering in the night air. He says your name after a moment, and you blink back.

“Let me leave first,” he says as he slides the glasses on. You clutch the sheet back to you, feeling almost sheepish, but Zeke looks so placidly unbothered as he reaches for his garments, as if being naked is barely worth remarking. “Just in case there’s anyone downstairs. At least five minutes should be fine, even if I need to talk away any guards or officials.”

“Thank you… sir,” you say. The word feels uncomfortable, heavy in your mouth, but it would have felt just as strange to leave it out.

Zeke’s lips twitch, a gentle, amused smile in your direction, and he stands to pull his trousers back on. “I think in private, there’s no harm in being familiar. I’d say we know each other intimately now.”

You flush, unable to meet his eyes as he looms over you. “Yes,” you say, his expectant silence pressing in the darkness. 

“Then I think I just may see you again up here some night. Or for that wine, if it proves too cold.”

He stoops to gather his boots, his shirt, and takes a step back towards the rows of laundry. Then he stops, fishing in his pockets to fling something your way.

“In the meantime, maybe I’ll corrupt you into picking up this bad habit of mine, hmm?”

You look down at what’s landed deep in the folds of the sheet still pressed around you, hidden from view in the dark. When you look up, Zeke is gone, with only one parting remark ghosting through the laundry.

“Or at least bring them back to me.”

You wait, but he doesn’t offer any other words, the footsteps receding down the steps with a jaunty whistle rising faintly on the wind. When you’re sure he’s not coming back, you let the sheet fall and cautiously dip your fingers into the folds of fabric, and pluck out a small matchbook and packet of cigarettes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I was very specifically inspired by the scene between Zeke and Colt and Magath on the roof; by the setting specifically, as is obvious, but I love Zeke's attitude; so calculating and casual in his own agenda, but dropping sly little hints that definitely amuse him without actually giving anything away, and I hope I captured that essence well. This was a lot of fun to do; and a character/ piece I would be willing to return to once I complete other requests.. I can think of many more of Zeke's vices and tempting ways. Let me know what you think! :) ~ Tessa * SEE MY CARRD IN MY PROFILE FOR INFORMATION ABOUT MAKING REQUESTS *


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